


Shooting Practice

by winchestersinthedrift



Series: Het SPN Oneshots [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Sitting, Guns, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and Dean get up to a little more than shooting practice one cold fall morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shooting Practice

The thing that made you craziest was that you should have been good at marksmanship. You were good at darts, and pool, and ping-pong (’ping-pong,’ Dean had said with an eye-roll, ‘has no relevance to hunting, I’m sorry Y/N but it fucking doesn’t’). You were even OK with a rifle, something you could get a feel for against your shoulder and brace for the kick from. It was the handguns that were your nemesis, had been since you started hanging with the Winchester boys a few months before.

‘What if I just do the other stuff,’ you suggested drunkenly one night, ‘uh - blades and - rifles - and you guys do the handguns.’

Dean had looked up at you from under raised brows and Sam had actually burst out laughing. You’d been drunk enough to be confused.

‘What?’

‘Yes, Y/N,’ Dean’d said finally, ‘it will work really well when you go in as a fed to be packing a rifle or a machete instead of a standard issue.’ 

Well, fine.

But actually handguns weren’t the thing that made you craziest. That would be Dean Winchester.

You were pretty damn sure, in fact, that he was throwing you off your game this morning at the shooting range. It was a makeshift one he’d set up out on the edge of Bobby’s property, some bottles and a few old boots on a wooden frame down at one end of a field, and he’d woken you up from Bobby’s couch at 4.30 that morning to get some practice ‘under field conditions’ as he put it. A little more of his Dad was still stuck on there than Dean would usually admit. You’d staggered across the lot and by the time you got to the range, across a field of high-cut stubble golden and stiff with hoarfrost this late in the fall, you were awake enough to chug hot coffee from the thermos Dean had brought. 

You were standing rubbing your gloved hands together to try to get them warmer when Dean saw what you were doing and came over.

‘Here,’ he said, and unzipped the hoodie under his open jacket. ‘Take off your gloves.’ You looked at him strangely but did it, slowly, and he took a hand in each of his and tucked one under each of his arms before you quite knew what was happening. ‘’s alright, I showered. (’When??’ you wondered dazedly) Quickest way to warm up extremities. Works pretty quick.’

Oh, it was working quick, alright, thought you weren’t sure that the parts of your body it was working on were exactly the ones Dean had in mind. The feel of his skin bare against your palms and the brush of his underarm hair against your fingers had made your skin come over in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold and. A low thrum began low in your pelvis. You swallowed, stomped briskly a couple of times, and in a show of businesslike focus slipped your hands back out and picked up one of the pistols. He gave you a quick look but didn’t say anything.

You’d probably had a crush on Dean since he opened the door at Bobby’s place when you’d first arrived and yelled over his shoulder ‘Sammmmmy! Stray’s here!’ But he’d winked at you when he said it and stood back against the door to let you pass inside, and that night you’d all shared a bottle of gin on the living room floor. Your eyes had kept roaming back round to him, back propped against the couch, his sweats riding a little low and showing off just the suggestion of a curve at the top of his ass, tshirt worn and clinging to his shoulders. A few times he laughed so hard that he actually tipped over on his side and had to recover on the floor, shaking all down his body (you noticed that, too). A couple of times you thought you’d caught him glancing at your appreciatively, but it was hard to say. You’d also been pretty drunk.

Since then you hadn’t had a night quite that relaxed, but that hadn’t stopped you from developing a crush of quite ridiculous proportions. Sometimes at night you’d lie awake and think about the looks he’d given you that day, the way he’d started when you brushed past him in the narrow pantry, the fact that he’d stayed inside and played hearts with you a week ago instead of checking out a 67 Mustang a couple towns over. Sometimes, too, you just thought about his freckles, the long ropes of muscle running down his arms and the way he sat and stood and fought with his hips a little forward and his legs far apart. Sometimes you thought about –

‘Y/N? Good to go?’

‘OK,’ you said, startling, and flustered to find that you were a little breathless, ‘let’s do this so we can go back in. Clear if I go?’

He nodded, snapping into hunting mode in that way that always sent a cold flutter down your core, and you weighed the pistol in your hand and clicked off the safety. You let off a couple of shots. One of them dinged the bench that the targets were set up on; the other one missed your target can by a couple of inches. You growled in frustration and reloaded.

‘Hey,’ said Dean from behind you, ‘don’t get worked up honey. Stagger your legs a bit - that’s right - remember, index it - ok, go again.’

This time you hit one of the targets and missed another. You curled your free fist tight in frustration till your knuckles showed white.

‘Are there people who just - can’t do this?’ you asked, close to pouting. 

‘There are,’ said Dean. ‘You are not one of them. You’re close, you’re just - dammit I wish I could figure out … here, do it again and let me feel how you’re carrying the weight in your arms.’

He stepped up behind you, close behind you, close enough that you could feel him pressed up lightly against your back.

‘K,’ he said, and shifted against you a little so that his chest was pressed more firmly against the back of your shoulder, ‘I’m just going to feel how you’re holding the tension in your arm. Shoot again, just pretend I’m not here.’ 

Fat chance of that, you thought a little grimly, but you aimed and fired. Another split down the middle, one hit and a miss. You felt him nod behind you, once, quick and assured.

‘K, I see what’s catching you up. Here, look.’ 

You stepped back to let him demonstrate and raised your hands to blow on them. The smell of his musk was still on your fingers and you struggled to focus.

‘Wanna feel how I hold my shoulder? Just put your hand - no, a little to the left - press harder or you won’t feel it. OK.’

When he shifted his arm up to fire you could feel the muscle in his shoulder roll under your palm. He fired, and then without consciously deciding to do it you slipped your hands down over his back to his waist. He had taken off his heavy flannel jacket and was still in his sweats and a light hoodie. Your thumbs touched bare skin and your hands instinctively tightened a little. You felt him freeze for a second, perfectly still, and then he turned on his heel to face you, standing so close that his tshirt caught on the zipper of your jacket. He pulled off your toque so that your hair fell down, tangled and fuzzy from sleep, and one of his hands ran carefully through the curls behind your ear.

He was a lot taller than you, and you tipped your head back a little to see him.

‘Hey,’ he said, and his mouth twisted a little so that a dimple popped deep on one side of his lips. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his scruff was dark and messy. You thrust up on your tiptoes and he grabbed you with a forearm right around your waist and kissed you, hard, close-mouthed at first but quickly deepening. It was, you thought, and blushed hot at the thought, as if he was eating out your mouth, all tongue and pressure and lips insistent against yours.

‘Shit - didn’t brush my teeth yet,’ you said, a little dazedly, and he laughed into your mouth.

‘Shut up,’ he said, and pulled your body against his so hard that you staggered back and would have fallen if he hadn’t staggered forward himself and caught you. He fell to his knees and dragged you down onto his thighs. The stalks of wheat crunched flat under your boots as you sank down on him. His face was upturned to yours, drawn back just enough to make your lips chase his, not teasing but open, drawing out the tension, licking along the underside of your lower lip. He slipped both hands up under your hoodie just as you caught his lips and kissed him hard. His fingers moved over your sides, circled gliding over your back, came to rest just at the drawstring of your sweats. He made a soft inquiring noise low in his throat and in response you just leaned forward with your hips and let the weight of your body grind your crotch full against him. You could feel his dick hard and stiffening just under the waistband of his sweats. He dragged one of his hands lower, letting the weight of it carry down the drawstring of your pants so that his thumb ended up just at your pubic bone and his fingers slipped down inside to rub messily against you. He had taken the momentum back now and was kissing you urgently, his other hand splayed flat across your back, holding you hard up against his fingers. You bit his lower lip and his tongue met you, forced your jaw open and tasted every part of your mouth, sloppy and wet and muffling the breathy moans that he’d started to make. He trailed down to your collarbone and was kissing up the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to leave little bruises.

‘Dean,’ you said, and shivered, this time from the cold, ‘you wanna - should we go inside? It’s kind of fucking cold.’

He ducked his head for a minute and buried it in the gaping neck of your hoodie.

‘Bobby’ll be awake,’ he said, muffled, ‘ugh. But - uh - k, come ‘ere.’ He picked you up and slung you over his shoulder and took off across the field. You were laughing too hard to ask where you were going, but he stopped at the edge of the junkyard and wrenched open the driver’s door of a giant old Cadillac. He set you down and you goggled at him a little. 

‘Why -’

‘Heating still’s good on this one,’ he said, not even out of breath. ‘Won’t budge an inch but she’ll keep us warm.’ He’d been laughing while he was running but now something else came over his face, quiet and deadly serious. ‘Listen, Y/N, are we doing this?’

You felt the answer so hard you almost forgot to say it out loud.

‘Yes,’ you said, when you realised, ‘shit, Dean, yes.’

He let out a long breath and swung into the driver’s seat, holding your gaze the whole time with eyes that were suddenly hooded and dark.

‘Come here,’ he said, and hit the lever that let him push the chair back from the dash. He pulled you down so that you were facing him, straddling his lap with your back to the steering wheel. Then he yanked the door shut and cranked the heat. For a half second you both sat perfectly, listening to the rattling of the heater as it croaked to life, and then you were cursing, struggling with the zipper of your hoodie. Dean looked at you with that same glance, a little dangerous, up from under his eyebrows, and then he took it from your fingers and broke it, tore the teeth of the zipper right apart, and was tugging your pajama top up over your head. You hadn’t put on a bra yet and your breasts were drawn up tight and nippled from the cold air and the arousal that was running in little chills and flushes down your body.

Dean simultaneously put his mouth around your breast and his hand back down the front of your pants, and this was so overwhelming that for a second you couldn’t even react or respond, just felt a tidal flood of pure physical pleasure that threatened the limits of your perception. Then you took a breath sharp and pitchy enough to be a gasp as his fingers slid down over your clit and felt the wetness that had already dampened your panties. You scrabbled at his pants, got the drawstring undone and slipped them down under his ass (that ass, fuck), and then you were sliding down underneath the steering column and taking him into your mouth, the taste of his head already sharp with precum. He made a little noise of protest as you slipped away from his fingers.

‘Y/N – holy fuck – Y/N, no, don’t – I – ohgod –’

‘Shut up,’ you said, around his dick, ‘let me do this Dean.’ 

He put his hands hard on his own hipbones and strained down through his arms, holding himself back.

‘My hair,’ you said, ‘Dean, hair.’ He grabbed it, at once and hard, fingers wrapping round its tangles, and as you ran your tongue round the head of his cock he followed your movement, pushed ever so slightly, and you moaned appreciatively and formed a seal, sucking and tonguing the sensitive nerves along its underside. You followed the tension of his hands in her hair, bobbed up and down, drunk on the feel of him against your palate and the scent of him all around you, and then he bent so that he slipped out of your mouth and pulled you back into his lap.

‘Y/N,’ he said, low and breathing heavy now, ‘honey, let me - sweetheart, I want to - can I?’ And then things suddenly became clumsy and frantic, Dean scrabbling to get your sweats down over your thighs and groping for the lever at the side of the door, hitting it so hard that the seat fell back jarringly and you had to grab his head to avoid being thrown off. Then his hands were unexpectedly under your ass and pulling you up onto his face and fuck. You put your palms up against the roof of the car and gaped down at him, pupils blown and arms shaking because fuck if you weren’t about to ride Dean Winchester’s face. He was laughing up at you, giddy, and licked his lips. 

‘Watch your head, baby.’

You opened your mouth but then any reply you might have made was obliterated when he pulled you up right onto his face and licked a thick wet circle around your clit. He shook his head once to shift a little further into your pussy and then you stopped noticing exactly what he was doing, stopped making mental notes or even mental sense because his mouth was heat and fire and a pleasure so intense it was almost pain, lighting every nerve in your body with incandescent tension. You had a moment of intense self-consciousness, but Dean was looking at you with such frank desire that it made you a little dizzy and brought a fresh warm wetness over his mouth. Someone was making little noises of desperation, high-pitched moans so probably you but you couldn’t seem to stop it, and one of his hands was up by his chin and pushing two fingers into you. He crooked them inside you and stroked up against your g-spot, not quite to the point of overstimulation but firm and rhythmically. 

Then, suddenly, 

‘C’mere,’ he said, and put his hands up around your waist and rolled both of you over and a little sideways so that you ended up lengthwise in the backseat, Dean on top and between your legs, flushed and laughing. He held your hips and you bit your lip and spread your legs a little and took him full in a single unbroken movement. He gave a kind of broken noise, guttural and sudden, and ran his hands so hard up your thighs that it hurt a little. 

‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘sweetheart, Y/N, jesuschrist.’ Before you’d even quite loosened and stretched around him he started rutting up into you, feet braced against the opposite door and moving with slow, slow, short thrusts. A new, deeper surge of pleasure started to build in your gut and you rolled your hips against him. You splayed your palms wide on the insides of your thighs and pushed them open for him, and he smirked at you with those full, wet lips and winked. 

‘Goddamn Y/N,’ he said, panting, hips rocking against you with debilitating urgency. Your body was clenching and tensing for release but the relentless thrusting of his cock instead just wound you tighter, brought you coiled and shuddering to the edge and left you there. He shifted a little, hit your g-spot again, and a slow warm trembling started to spread down your spine. The feel of it made your breath stutter a little, and your fingers started fluttering against your thighs. Dean looked down at you with a crooked half-grin, eyes dark but still laughing.

‘Sweetheart,’ he said, ‘you ok?’ You realised that your mouth was open and moving but no words were coming out. 

‘Fuck,’ you said faintly, ‘fuck fuck, Dean, please, please Dean, please –’

He pushed deeper inside you, then, shoulders rolling above you with the force of his thrusts. His head fell back, eyes rolling up in his head a little and lips parted. You dug your fingers into his shoulders and wrapped your legs up around his ass, and the change of angle was enough to send you right over the threshold into whiteout. 

‘Dean,’ you said, through your teeth, as if it was ground out of you by the force of him rocking into you. Your legs were still shaking when you felt his thighs go rigid and his hips locked against you. He put his face down against yours and kissed you, soft and exhausted. 

‘I’m not sure my shooting improved at all this morning, Dean,’ you said, when you could talk again. ‘What are we gonna tell Bobby and Sam?’

‘I’ll tell ‘em,’ he said, ‘I thought it was a damn good morning.’


End file.
